


The Multiple Destinations of One Bullet

by GoddessOfApples



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Character Death, F/M, Friendship/Love, Grief/Mourning, Hurt/Comfort, Romance, Sherlolly - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-02-24
Updated: 2014-08-22
Packaged: 2018-01-13 16:05:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 10
Words: 12,553
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1232686
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GoddessOfApples/pseuds/GoddessOfApples
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Molly finally has enough of Sherlock and stands strong, could it be it? But then the most horrible thing happens... And Sherlock seeks help from his pathologist.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Day Molly Has Enough And Sherlock Doesn't Understand

CHAPTER 1: THE DAY MOLLY HAD ENOUGH AND SHERLOCK DIDN'T UNDERSTAND

Thursday, 2 p.m.

She was sitting in the cafeteria, when he arrived, coat swaying behind like a cloak. As always, Molly felt the butterflies in her stomach. His eyes were shining only when he was on a case. He probably just wanted a body or a limb or an autopsy report for his personal experiments. There was always hope in Molly that he came for something else. But he never came for anything that didn't involve a cadaver.

When he reached her table, she realized that she had been staring in a very embarrassing way and closed her mouth.  _Why do I turn into this mess every time he is around?_

"I need a body," he demanded.

 _Of course he needs a body, what else._ But suddenly came a change.

"What for?" Molly bursted out, without thinking. She felt the blood rising to her face. _Oh god, he will say now how horrible I look or how my weak mind couldn't possibly understand the depths of his reasons._

But Sherlock only lifted his eyebrow. "An experiment, obviously."

Molly rolled her eyes, when a sudden rush of boldness took over her. "Yes, Sherlock. That is obvious. I meant what are you going to do with the body."

His eyes looked at the woman suspiciously, while his mouth curved into a smile. "Your hair looks different today, Molly. It suits you. You look lovely."

 _Is he always like this? So disgustingly manipulative and fake._ She then understood that yes, he always was like this. Mean and cruel. It was time for her to wake up from the dream. She knew exactly how her hair looked. It looked the same way as it did yesterday, when he took the bother to tell her that ponytails are dull and she should change her style, because it didn't suit a professional pathologist like her.

"Shut up, Sherlock. Don't dodge the subject. I'm asking again. What are you going to do with a body?"

Sherlock pressed his lips tightly together and frowned. He didn't like the resistance he met. Usually Molly would have just ran along to do what he said, but not anymore. She'd had enough of his controlling and ordering. _For god's sake! I'm 31 years old! I can do what I want!_

Judging by the look on his face, he was definitely not pleased. He tried to read Molly, to deduce what made her act this way and she simply looked him coldly in the eye, lifting an eyebrow to emphasize that her question was still unanswered.

His face turned motionless, when his efforts came without results. "What do you think I am going to do with a body, Molly," he replied, all fake gone from his voice, that was now colder than ice, "Eat it? Even you couldn't possibly be that stupid."

"No," she said.

"No what?"

"No, you cannot have a body."

"I didn't ask."

"I know you didn't. That's why you can't have one."

"Fine. Oh Molly! Pretty please! Can I please, please, please have a dead human corpse?" His voice was now soaking with sarcasm.

"No."

"Why not?"

"Because I say so."

"Do you now?"

"Yes. My morgue. My rules. No, you can't have a body, because I say so."

"Since when is the morgue yours?"

"Since I became the head of the pathology department. Now piss off. I want to finish my lunch."

Now they were staring at each other and waiting who would give up sooner. _It's not going to be me. Not anymore, not ever._ And looking into his freezing ocean coloured eyes, Molly knew she could do it. It was stupid to hold up hopes about him, so she decided to give up on it and act normal around him. _Like me. Like I am around everyone else. A strong independent woman. And no Sherlock Holmes is going to change who I am._

As if he had heard it out loud, he gave up and looked away. No goodbye and nothing, he turned around and dashed out of the cafeteria.

_Oh my god! Did I just say 'Piss off' to Sherl- No! Damn it, Molly! Don't start again!_

It felt good. Really good. She felt like she was born again. Molly was happier than she had ever been. Who would have thought? Molly Hooper, a mousy pathologist, had found her inner strength again. _To hell with Sherlock Holmes! I am a single woman in my best years. I'm going out tonight!_

And so she finished her tuna sandwich, picking out her phone and smiling to herself.

Thursday, 7 p.m.

_No._

The word haunted him. The word he thought Molly Hooper would never say.

 _I don't understand!_ And that fact made him angry. So he ignored John and curled up on the couch, facing the wall with the annoying smiley. _God! Must John breathe so loud? And I'm sure he could turn the newspaper pages more silently!_

"Sherlock..." _Oh god he started to talk as well._

"What?" he growled, still staring the yellow graffiti paint.

"What happened today in Barts?" John asked, putting the newspaper away as Sherlock could tell by another sound of paper being tortured.

"What makes you think that something happened?"

"Are we going to go on with these questions? You rushed out of the cafeteria with a face like you'd just seen... I don't know... Mycroft doing belly dance!"

Sherlock turned around and jumped up from the sofa, stepping over the coffee-table to sit down in his chair facing John. "That is ridiculous! Don't be stupid!"

"I was just- You know! Never mind!" he said and picked up the paper again. The detective grabbed it from him and made him look back at his face.

"What?" he asked again.

"What what, Sherlock?"

 _He is so annoying!_ "Fine! It was Molly!"

John raised his eyebrows (or rather lowered his hair, because that's what it looked like) and smirked knowingly. "Yes, Sherlock, I could guess that already. What did you do this time?"

Sherlock laid back in the chair and pulled his knees under his chin. John hated when he did that, because in his words he "looks like a bloody child" when he does that. Sherlock doesn't care. "Why do you think it was something that I did?"

John laughed, but then gave him a serious look. "Stop with the questions. I'm asking them now. Now tell me what did you do to Molly?"

"Nothing! Absolutely nothing! I just wanted a body and she said no!" He jumped up again and walked around the room, hands tucked safely in the pockets of his robe so he wouldn't hit anything.

"She did?! Good girl!" John grinned.

Sherlock glared at him. "Shut up!"

He rolled his eyes and said: "Sherlock, you've been harassing Molly mentally for years. If I was instead of her, I would have punched you in the face long ago. It was time she got over you."

"Got over me? What are you talking about?" Again he was confused. He hated it.

John crossed his arms on his chest. A note that now he was really pissed at the other man. It seemed to Sherlock that everyone got angry with him today, even if he didn't say anything "insulting", like John referred to his deductions. Rather than looking at John, staring at him from his armchair, Sherlock walked to the kitchen.

"Just spit it out, John. What have I done this time?" he asked him, while going through the kitchen cupboards to find anything eatable.

"This time you have to figure it out yourself. You are one of the brightest minds in the world, yet I have never met anyone more stupid than you. Just one hint. Just one. Molly is clever, funny and confident..." Sherlock laughed. _In which parallel universe is she confident? And funny?_ "... only when you're not around." That made the detective close his mouth.

Sherlock analyzed his words and barely noticed John grabbing his coat and saying something about a Mary and leaving him to his thoughts. Sherlock quit the search, because they had no food and took back his old position on the couch, where he revisited his conversation with Molly.

When he had entered the cafeteria and noticed her sitting alone behind a table, with a sandwich and a cup of coffee, wearing a hideous light pink tiny-black-flower-patterned jumpsuit and her usual white labcoat, she was acting as usual. First her cheeks turned red and she started staring at the man like a half-minded. Then he demanded a body, to which she wanted to know what for. She seemed to regret her words at once, blushing again.

But then she said no. No. Just one little word. _Why does it bother me so much?_

Maybe because he has never seen Molly be so confident before. She didn't stutter once. Perhaps John is right. She got over his presence and started acting normal around him. Like she was with everybody else. _But why does it bother me so much??_

 _I need a distraction!_ "I NEED A CASE!" he shouted to the smiley.

The face didn't change.


	2. An Unexpected Meeting And An Unwanted Case

CHAPTER 2: AN UNEXPECTED MEETING AND AN UNWANTED CASE

Thursday, 8 p.m.

They had agreed to meet in front of the restaurant exactly eight, but Molly arrived two minutes late. A mistake easily forgiven. Mary and John were already there, standing and waiting for her. As soon as she came out of the cab and John saw her, he came to her, shook her hand and said: "Congratulations!"

Mary smiled and hugged the other woman. "Well done!" she whispered to her ear. She raised eyebrows. "On what occasion?" She asked.

John laughed. "For finally telling Sherlock to piss off."

"Oh that..." Molly blushed.

"You should have seen him, when we got home! He practically destroyed his skull." He put his arm around Mary's waist and Mary took Molly's hand. They entered the Italian restaurant, which John had offered out, when Molly proposed him and Mary to go out together tonight. The place owner, named Angelo, welcomed them cheerily, although he seemed surprised for some reason, while watching John and Mary.

He showed them to their seats and gave them the menus. The three chatted about everyday life. Under the pair's encouragement Molly told in detail what had happened today in the cafeteria of St. Bartholomew's Hospital. They had a lot of fun and the food was also good. Molly asked John about the restaurant and he told the ladies the story of his first case with Sherlock and the embarrassing incident with his cane.

It had been a very long time since Molly was able to relax so much in other people's company. After a while she managed to accidentally drop a spaghetti on her blue dress and had to excuse herself to the toilet. Walking to the other side of the restaurant, she noticed a familiar man with silver hair sitting alone in the bar. _Greg Lestrade! What is he doing here?_

Molly pulled herself up on the chair next to him and smiled. "Hello!" she greeted him.

He turned to her and the moment he recognized her, he smiled back. "Molly Hooper, the pathologist. What are you doing here? A date?"

She laughed. "If I was on a date, would I be now here, talking to you? No, I'm here with John and Mary."

He frowned for a moment, trying to remember. "Sorry... Mary who exactly?"

"Mary Morstan. Works with me in Barts." The pathologist grabbed a napkin from the counter and started cleaning her dress.

Greg's eyes lightened. "Ah yes! The blond nurse! So her and John Watson then." He sipped his beer.

"Yes. Would you like to join u- Oh!" she had waved towards their table, where the couple had forgotten the food and were busy snogging each other. Molly giggled. "Maybe it's better if I sit here for a while. Do you mind?"

"Not at all. I could use some company anyway."

She smiled warmly to him again. "So, Greg... What brought you here tonight?"

Friday, 11 a.m.

"We're out of milk again, John. Do you even listen to what I'm saying?" Sherlock said to John, when he entered the kitchen.

"Do I even liste- Sherlock, I just came home two seconds ago. A proper thing to say is 'Good morning', but it didn't come to your head, did it?" He waved him off and headed up the stairs to his room. "And you're not a child anymore. You can buy the milk yourself," he shouted to his back. He ignored him.

The doorbell rang. A client.

"John!"

"Heard it. Coming."

Sherlock ran downstairs and opened the front door.

_Woman. Mid-forties. Expensive jewellery and clothes, new. Cheap hair dye and manicure. Bad make-up. Not a journalist, too dull. A secretary. A former secretary. Not working now. Living from a heritage. Enough to buy a Chanel dress, not enough to have a decent lunch for the rest of the week. Conclusion: trying to impress me at all cost._

_Idiot._

"Sherlock Holmes, the detective?" she asked, with a too deep voice to be flattering for a woman.

"Yes. Go upstairs," he said holding the door open. John had taught him at least to hear their story before throwing them out.

The woman was slow enough to make him sigh. _Damn John and his manners! A waste of my time._ But Lestrade hadn't phoned either, so it was this or shooting the wall. Or Cluedo, but John had refused to play it with him since the last time. _He's so boring._

He made tea in the kitchen, while Sherlock showed their "guest" where she could sit down. Sherlock sat in his armchair and took in his thinking position. She placed her one leg over the other, a clear sign of her days as a secretary in a low-class company. John finished with the tea and brought it to the living-room on a tray. Three cups of black tea, as usual, when they had a client.

"So... How can we help you?" he asked from her, while she took her first sip of the tea.

The woman put the cup down and started talking: "Well... It was Tuesday afternoon and I was wa-" _Here it goes..._

Sherlock interrupted her. "Spare us of your life story. What do you want?"

She looked startled for a second and John gave him a disapproving glance. He sent him a look that told him to shut up.

"Ehm... Well... In short. I want you to find my dog," she stuttered out.

 _She what?_ He stood up and walked in front of her. No traces of a dog in her possession. No traces of a pet in any kind. _Why is she lying? Obviously she is lying. What for, is the question?_ There was something bigger behind it all.

"We'll take the case," Sherlock said, surprising John, so he choked on his tea, "leave your contacts to John, so we can keep you in touch of the progress. Have a nice day!"

He smirked to the woman, took his cup and went back to his chair, to go to his mind palace and block out everything else, except the case and his cup of tea.

Sherlock entered a wing in his palace named ENEMIES. Over the years he had collected a lot of them. Most were now in prison or even dead, but some still remained. Who would be most likely to set him up now with an obviously ridiculous job offer, that is so ridiculous that he would accept it? Who would make his attentions so obvious?

The detective browsed through the names in his mind. Some owned a room, some just a folder. He stopped in front of a door with a large sign on it. JUST RELEASED FROM PRISON. _Could it be her?_ Sherlock opened the door to a quite small room. The walls were covered with pictures of a woman. A woman with many faces. A woman who could almost always fool him. The same woman who was in his living-room just now. _We meet again... How could I have not recognized you? But then again... You do have very many faces..._ He smiled to himself. _This is going to be entertaining!_

When he left his mind palace, after reminding himself everything he knew about that woman, many hours had passed. He looked at his watch. It was already three o' clock.

"John!" Sherlock shouted.

"What?" He heard the reply upstairs. Then footsteps on the stairs, when he came down.

Sherlock was up in an instant, grabbing him from his shoulders, to make him understand the seriousness of his words. "Did she leave something behind?"

John frowned and pushed his hands off. "Yes, she did. She said the kidnapper of her dog left it behind, but honestly... I'm wondering if she's all right up there..." He pointed first at his head and then at the kitchen table. There was a zip bag with a little bit of dirt inside. Sherlock felt another smile reach his face.

"Brilliant! Let's go!" he said, grabbing his coat, scarf and the bag, rushing out. John followed the man, still in confusion.

"Where are we going, if I may ask?"

"Barts." Sherlock hailed a cab and got in with John, when one pulled over.

"Care to explain?"

"Later."

"Fine."


	3. What's The Case About? Her? Or Her? Probably Her.

CHAPTER 3: WHAT'S THE CASE ABOUT? HER? OR HER? PROBABLY HER.

Friday, 3 p.m.

Lestrade had phoned Molly and called her out for lunch. They went to a small cafe near Barts, ordered two salads and cappuccino and just talked. He had gone through a divorce recently and was lonely, so Molly felt it was her duty to support him, like she did yesterday, by keeping him company. _He is a very good friend and I truly enjoy his jokes, she thought, but he is still just a friend. I hope he understands._

After lunch Lestrade admitted that he had a little work related busyness as well. A new case of homicide, that was very much his division, had come up and he needed the autopsy results. Molly told him that she hadn't gotten time for it before and had intended to do it right after lunch. He told her he'd wait, so here he was now. Sitting in the lab. _Nice of him to be here. Nobody really visits this place._

Molly was filling in the papers and the DI entertained her with a couple of anecdotes he had heard about Sherlock and John. When he had finished one that comprehended John, a stewardess and Sherlock's spectacular skill of disguises, they were both curled up in laughter.

On that very second the famous detective and his assistant entered the room, with an arrogant look on the taller man's face. That of course made them laugh even more, which made Sherlock frown in great displeasure.

"What are you guys laughing about, if I may ask?" said John. He came over, shook Lestrade's hand and greeted Molly with a hug.

"Oh nothing, nothing! Greg just told me some really good jokes," she answered his question, winking at the detective inspector, who gave her a bright smile in return.

Sherlock, obviously missing attention, rolled his eyes and sighed, taking off his Belstaff coat and the blue scarf.

"Problem?" Molly asked him, lifting her eyebrow, thanking god that the determination from yesterday hadn't left her.

He answered, voice soaking with sarcasm: "Of course not." He gave one of his fake smiles and placed his coat on the coat rack.

The little plastic bag in his hands told the pathologist clearly that he was here for work. _As long as he's not bossing me around, he can do all that he wants to... Well not all._

She turned back to her papers, while John and Lestrade started talking something about a case somewhere in Dublin. She wasn't really listening and tuned out in her own thoughts, describing the wounds of the victim in the autopsy report.

Soon enough the resonating baritone bursted her bubble: "Coffee, Molly, if you please."

"Get it yourself," she replied, not lifting her eyes off the papers.

* * *

 

The moment Sherlock stepped into the lab and saw Molly laughing, he felt a warm fuzz in his stomach. _I've never heard Molly laugh like this before._ Then he noticed Lestrade with her and the warmness turned into a sharp stitch.

They had had lunch together, he could see from the fresh coffee stain on Lestrade's sleeve. They had also been together last night, judging by the collar of Molly's shirt. _And then is their obvious flirtation._ It made him want to vomit.

The stitch grew into an ache. _What is this?_ He decided that he didn't like it, so he shut the feeling away to the cellar of his mind palace, where he kept the things he doesn't talk about. _It's safer this way._

"Problem?"

"Of course not," Sherlock answered and occupied his microscope, to examine the dirt.

Soon he felt something was missing. Molly's constant gabbling. _I can't work like that._ "Coffee, Molly, if you please." He decided to win her back.

"Get it yourself," she calmly said, not even looking at the man and continued to work with her papers.

And then Sherlock felt lonely. He watched her chestnut brown hair reflect the light and give her a fascinating glow. She has always had such lovely hair. He shook himself out of it. Fortunately John and Lestrade were deep in their conversation and didn't see his moment of weakness.

But he still felt lonely, when he turned back to the microscope. John had a new girlfriend and this one looked serious, Mrs Hudson was on a holiday on Tenerife and Molly wasn't friendly to him anymore. He felt old even if he was only 30.

 _Why am I suddenly thinking about things like that?_ Sherlock shut off those thoughts and concentrated on his work. The same old microscope, which's buttons were familiar and reacted to his every touch, gave him the comfort he needed and soon he knew exactly what to do next. He smirked.

"John. Let's go," Sherlock said, when he had cleaned up. He pulled on his coat and scarf, hearing a little sigh from John, who said goodbye to Molly and Lestrade. The detective was about to rush out of the lab door when unexpected words slipped from his mouth: "Goodbye, Molly Hooper."

He managed to see a look of utter surprise on Molly's face, before he disappeared behind the door, followed by John.

When they exited the hospital, John grabbed his arm and pulled him to stop.

"Sherlock. What is going on? Where are we going?"

"The case, John. Do keep up." Sherlock hailed a cab.

"The kidnapped dog?" His voice carried a sound of disbelief.

"Obviously a lie. That woman is an actor. A criminal mastermind, who uses her countless disguises to steal, blackmail and trick other people for money. I managed to lock her up about 10 years ago, but she is out now and probably planning a revenge," Sherlock answered him, sitting in the cab that had stopped.

John stood outside for a moment, confusion on his face. Sherlock lifted his eyebrow.

"Are you coming or not?"

He sat in. "And where are we going, if I may ask?"

"Sussex Gardens."


	4. Can Things Get Any Worse? Yes. Yes, They Can. Much Worse.

CHAPTER 4: CAN THINGS GET ANY WORSE? YES. YES, THEY CAN. MUCH WORSE.

Friday, 7 p.m

Everything was a haze when Sherlock finally opened his eyes. He couldn't see anything, except the outlines of three people standing in the room. He couldn't move himself and he made the simple deduction that he was tied to a chair.

He also felt something warm covering his face. Blood. His blood, he thought as soon as the pain in his forehead hit him.

 _How could I have been so stupid?_ Well, now it was too late. Sherlock Holmes and John Watson had stepped directly and without hesitation into a trap. They had even known that it was a trap, so what they were feeling now, if you didn't count the bruises and cuts, was quite frankly below any scale.

They were, as Sherlock could see when his eyesight restored, in a storage room of some supermarket. John was right next to him, also tied to a cheap plastic chair. There was a big bruise on his cheek, but nothing too serious to worry about. John was already awake and sent Sherlock a look that said I blame you for everything, but I'm okay.

Confirmed that John was alright, Sherlock finally paid attention to the other people in the room. Two men and a woman.

"Ah, Mister Holmes. I see you are conscious. I may have accidentally injected a little too big dose for you," the woman turned to him, with a grin that clearly stated _Nothing I do is accidental._

Sherlock's reply consisted only of a bitter smile.

He, and unfortunately John too, had never doubted in his cleverness and had marched straight in the address, which Sherlock had 'read out' from the dirt, without any plan whatsoever. They had been attacked the same moment they entered by the four man standing in front of them now. Sherlock, who is a master in three material arts and is able to perform countless others, and John, an ex army doctor with real life battle experience, were beaten unfairly, with a needle in both's arms.

So now, as a result, they were captured.

The woman smiled again. "I feared that getting to you was going to be a much bigger trouble, but it seems that you aren't so smart after all. I'm a little disappointed, Mr Holmes."

Sherlock frowned. He wasn't going to answer. He assured himself that it was because of other reasons, but actually he was just embarrassed of himself.

"I hope you remember me, Mr Holmes."

"Your name is of no importance, Helen. You have too many of them," Sherlock said, voice a little hoarse, and tried unsuccessfully to find a better position, but the ropes cut off his movement.

The woman smoothed casually her black skirt. "My my. Are we on first name basis now, Sherlock?" She walked closer and sent a smile in John's way. John had been watching the short conversation with big eyes. "Aren't you going to introduce me to your friend? I know we've met already, but not officially."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "John, this is our client Helen Roylott. I'm sure you haven't forgotten her show this morning."

John's eyebrows were reaching his hairline, while his eyes moved back and forth between the two people. "Are you saying that this is the same woman?" he asked unbelievably from Sherlock, who shrugged his shoulders slightly.

Helen laughed wholeheartedly. It wasn't really understandable that they were dealing with the same woman as before. Her hair was now dark brown instead of blond, her posture was straighter, make-up better, clothes fitted perfectly. No trace of that woman from Baker Street.

Her laugh ended with a deep sigh. "You see, Sherlock... I'm not a happy person." She paused expectantly.

"And why is that so?" Sherlock asked, completely uninterested.

"Because you made me sit in a prison for ten years! Ten years! Have you got any idea how long that is?" Helen's eyes where shooting daggers at him and her hands were clenched in fists.

"And what do you expect to achieve by kidnapping me and my... colleague? Do you want to sit in another ten years?"

"Oh, Sherlock. I'm going to have my sweet revenge. Just the thought kept me going all these years. To finally see you suffer." A cold smile crept on her face.

Sherlock snorted. "Cliché. Boring."

A movement in the corner of his eye got his attention. John had been able to carefully release his one arm from the boundaries, but he was facing the three people on his chair and luckily his actions didn't come noticed.

Sherlock took it as a signal. His hands started loosening the ropes around his wrists, while staring into the woman's eyes, distracting her. He felt the ropes give in to the silent struggle and release his hands. Bad knotting. His torso was also tied to the chair, but that wouldn't be a trouble now that he could move his hands.

A plan started formulating in his brain. He broke the eyecontact to Helen and looked around the big storage room. It had high ceilings, some piles of cardboard boxes and an entrance to the right where they were sitting.

He also spared a look to the two men, who were standing behind Helen, dressed from head to toe black. Sherlock also noticed the bumps in their jackets. They were armed. But not experienced.

They were going to do it the easy way.

John, whose both hands were now free too, smiled slightly and said: "Well... It was a pleasure and everything, but how about you two," he nodded towards the men in black, "let us go now. This... is getting quite ridiculous."

"I couldn't agree more, John. I think it's time for us to leave," Sherlock nodded. He wiggled with his shoulders and the ropes came loose, so he was able to stand up. He wiped the dust from his jacket and backside.

John followed his actions and then they were both standing in front of a very startled Helen Roylott.

"Sorry, Mrs Roylott. Better think through your plans next time." John started to move to the exit.

Sherlock smirked and followed him. But they both froze when they heard the click of a gun.

"Ha ha, Mister Holmes. Very funny."

They turned and faced the woman, who was now holding a revolver.

A shot.

"JOHN!!"


	5. Burn, Baby, Burn

CHAPTER 5: BURN, BABY, BURN

"JOHN!"

It was a clear shot and the bullet hit the target's heart. His body fell to the floor with a loud thump. A big red stain was forming on his shirt. Sherlock kneeled next to him, frantically trying to stop the bleeding, but it was already too late.

John Hamish Watson was dead.

_No. No! NO! This is not supposed to happen!!_

Sherlock had never felt anything like that before. It seemed to him that he was the one lying on the cold concrete floor instead of John. His heart ached too much for him to bare and he couldn't rise. //What is this?//

The sight before him turned all red when he took his eyes off the dead body of his friend and glared at the woman with the gun.

"How does it feel, Sherlock? To be left without everything you care about?" she asked and handed the weapon back to the man behind him.

Sherlock rose slowly and stepped in front of Helen with two long strides. He couldn't care less about the men in black who released the safety locks on their guns and grabbed her neck in a deadly grip.

Sherlock Holmes was a strong man, a very strong man. Nobody usually suspected it when they saw his thin figure, but so it was.

The grip he had on Helen was enough to break her neck at the same time when another shot pierced the air. Bad aim and the bullet only scraped Sherlock's left arm.

Like a wild predator he tossed the body of the woman away and swiftly disarmed both of the men and knocked them unconscious.

He felt something boil inside him. Like a fire in his stomach, slowly consuming the rest of his body.

He was in pain. He needed to get away from this place. He couldn't look at the body of his best friend, lying there, broken. He didn't know where he was going. The only destination in his head was away.

The familiar streets of London were cold to him. He couldn't feel the safety of the busy streets anymore, so he ran. Ran as fast as he could, just to get away. He wouldn't let it come to him, he wouldn't admit it, but he was lost. He couldn't find his pace, his way, not even his mind. He was lost in his own body. He couldn't feel the physical pain of his wounds, because the pain inside his chest was overwhelming.

When he finally couldn't run anymore, he stopped. Through the haze of his dumbed brain, he looked at the street he was on.

It was familiar, but not in the way all the streets in the subconscious map of London he had in his head. This street here had a lavender scent associated to it.

He found himself in front of a red brick apartment building, opening the front door, dragging himself in and up the stairs to the third floor.

A brown door, with a small golden number on it. He had never been here before, but he knew. Of course he knew. He always knew.

Apparently not, was the last thing his scattered mind could form, as he collapsed on the door.

Friday, 9 p.m

Molly was spending her evening home, with a nice mug of hot tea and TV. She had snuggled herself in a large brown sweater and fluffy socks. The weather wasn't cold, but Molly liked being warm.

Suddenly she heard a loud thump against her flat door. She put her tea on the small coffe table in front of the television set, rose up and walked to the door, to peek out of peephole.

Her anxiety over an unwelcomed guest disappeared, when she saw the hallway empty. Almost.

A familiar black clad figure was lying in her doorstep.

_Sherlock!_

Molly opened her door quickly and bent down to check if he was okay. There was a wound in his forehead and his dress coat was torn on his left arm, revealing a long, but fortunately not deep, bleeding scratch.

But when Doctor Hooper's fingers carefully examined his head, she could feel waves of heat coming from him. She placed her palm on his face. //He's burning!//

"Sherlock!" she called for him and tried shaking him, but it was useless.

Molly then took his right arm over her neck and dragged him gently in her small flat, kicking the door shut with her foot. She managed with great effort to drag him in her bedroom and place the unconscious man in her bed.

Molly ran to her bathroom to collect her medical kit and to her kitchenette to take a bottle of vodka, she kept as an antiseptic. Then she went back to the bedroom and started attending to Sherlock's injuries.

She carefully slipped his hurt arm out of the jacket and finding no other options, as the blood had started drying to his white shirt, she took a pair of scissors from her shelf and cut open the dress shirt's sleeve. She soaked a cotton pad in the alcohol and wiped around the wound, cleaning Sherlock's pale skin from blood.

She took out the bandages from her kit and wrapped it around his arm. After tying it together, she soaked another pad and wiped the blood off his face.

There was a lot of blood there, since even the smallest head wounds bleed a lot, but the actual scratch was very small and Molly sighed thankfully. She placed one band-aid on it.

Sherlock's injuries had been dealt with, but his temperature still stood high. Molly bit her lip nervously. She took out the thermometer and put it carefully in his mouth.

She replaced the the things to their places and returned with a cold wet towel. The temperature on the screen read 38 centigrades.

Molly put the towel on his forehead and tried to wake him again.

"Sherlock! Sherlock, please!" She shook him slightly, but nothing happened. He lay there, with a look of great distress on his face.

She hid her face in her hands. _What happened? What am I going to do?_

Giving a worried look towards the bed, she went to the living room and took her phone. She scrolled through her contacts. _John. He'll know what's going on._

The phone rang, but no one answered. She tried again, but the result was the same. She pressed the bridge of her nose between her index and thumb, sighing again. _Greg._

He answered after the fourth call.

"Hello."

"Greg!" She was relieved.

"Molly! Is something wrong?"

"No- well yes..."

"Molly?" Lestrade sounded worried.

"It's Sherlock."

Pause. "What has that poor bastard done now?" he asked a bit angrily.

Molly explained the situation.

Pause. "Well that's a bit nasty."

"Is there anyone you could call? His brother?"

Lestrade sighed. "I think I have his number somewhere..."

"Could you please tell him what's wrong?" She was getting a little desperate.

"Of course, Molly. I'll see what I can do and then I'll call you back."

"Thank you." Her voice was almost like a whisper.

"Don't mention it. He has gotten himself into far worse situations before."

"Oh... Dr-?"

"Yes." He snapped. "Sorry. I'll better call."

"Thank you."

"Like I said, don't mention it. I'll call you soon."

"Okay."

She closed her phone, sat on the sofa and waited. Five minutes later, her phone rang.

"Yes?"

"He asked you to take care of him over the night. He will be there first thing in the morning. Bloody government noses, always busy..."

"Oh okay..."

"Do you need anything?"

"No. I'll manage." She whispered, on the verge of tears.

"Are you sure, Molly?" He was concerned.

She gathered more strength and made her voice sound strong. "I'm fine. I'm sorry I bothered you."

"Hey... Molly..."

"Like I said, I'm fine." She smiled weakly to herself. "Good night, Greg."

"Good night, Molly. If you need anything..."

"...then I'll call you."

"Okay. Take care."

"You too."

She put her phone on her coffe table and went back to her bedroom, where the dark haired man was still unconscious. She couldn't hold back tears anymore and they silently poured down her cheeks.

"Oh Sherlock. What have you gotten yourself into?"


	6. You Get A Stiff Neck From Sleeping On A Couch

CHAPTER 6: YOU GET A STIFF NECK FROM SLEEPING ON A COUCH.

Sherlock was wondering in his numb mind palace, not searching for anything particular. He didn't even know what he was doing there. Everything was pitch black, so he couldn't see or feel, but walking down a familiar corridor, he didn't even need his sight.

Suddenly he noticed a dim glow from under a door. QHe carefully pushed it open, just to back off a few steps when a wave of heat hit him and an orange light blinded his eyes.

_What the-?_

The walls of the room were on fire. Not the things in there: a laptop, some patterned sweaters, a cane, books. Not the furniture: a comfortable armchair, shelves, pillows. Not the pictures hanging. Just the dark brown walls, that kept everything safe and in order, separated from other things.

The fire didn't stop. It spreaded as fast as light to the next room and then the next. All Sherlock could do was to stand and watch as his mind shattered. All order was gone, his knowledge scattered around, while the walls of his mind palace, created to keep him organized and safe, burned down.

He walked in the ruins, mind overflowing with random facts, that were of no use to him without their right place. He had been on the top floor of his palace, but now it didn't matter anymore. No up or down, everything reduced to it's original state, like Sherlock had never even built it. The fire had died in the places it successfully destroyed and was still glowing in the corners, where there was left what to burn.

Suddenly Sherlock's lifeless body halted to a stop. One more place that was glowing in the dying fire, the strong confines of the door having their final moments, until they were gone to ash.

The basement.

And then Sherlock could feel it. Feel the flames, the heat, the pain. He drowned in the wave of everything he had locked up in the cellar since he was a boy. He sunk down and curled in a fetal position, no chance of fighting back, as the emotions, memories and thoughts surrounded him fully, giving him no exits, making him feel all the things he had forbade himself from feeling.

Saturday: 8 a.m

Last night Molly had stayed up as long as she could to look after the man in her bedroom, who was still having a high temperature, but even she couldn't push her tiredness away for too long. So she finally fell asleep on her sofa, after grabbing an extra blanket from her closet.

In the early Saturday morning she woke up to the sound of her doorbell ringing. Molly opened her eyes with great effort and stretched her arms and shoulders, beginning to feel a slight ache in her neck.

The doorbell rung again, this time more impatiently. Molly got up from her uncomfortable sleeping place and went to the door. After she had recognized the face, she opened it and let the tall man with an umbrella walk into her tiny flat.

Molly had only seen him a couple of times and gotten the impression that he and Sherlock didn't get along very well. She had two older brothers herself, but they had always been best friends with each other. But then again Sherlock was risen in a completely different society, so much she could tell. He never spoke about his childhood and family.

Mycroft Holmes seemed very foreign in Molly's two-room flat. The soft colourful pillows, mismatching furniture and family pictures on the bookshelf full of medical books, romance and criminal novels spoke volumes about a cheerful woman, not the emotionless and posh member of the government.

Molly spent no time on unnecessary words and opened her bedroom door for Mr. Holmes and herself to see the state his brother was in. She entered her room and carefully touched the sleeping man's forehead for temperature with one hand and massaging her neck with the other. It was as hot as yesterday and he still hadn't woken up. The older Holmes didn't enter the bedroom, polite as he was not intruding a woman's privacy, but stood in the doorway, observing his sibling.

"He is exactly as I found him. I don't know what's wrong with him, but he hasn't come conscious," Molly said silently.

Mycroft nodded. "You have graduated King's College in London, am I correct, Miss Hooper?"

"Doctor Hooper," she corrected him, "and yes, yes I have."

"Very good. I'm sure you can take good care of him. It would be... unwise to take him to a hospital right now, as he is wanted for murder."

Molly's eyebrows rose and she was extremely startled. "What? What happened?"

Mycroft stepped back into the living room and waved his hand slightly as a sign to Molly to sit down on the sofa. She obliged, but were cautious of what were to come.

The man looked out of the window for a moment and then started speaking. "Last night when I was reported of my dear brother running on the streets like a madman, I took the liberty to track down Mr. Watson, so he could bring a little sense in his possessed mind. Unfortunately after locating his phone and sending my assistant to collect him, I was notified of the dreadful events that had taken place. By that time I was also contacted by DI Lestrade, who kindly let me know of my brother's whereabouts."

Molly frowned. "Dreadful events?"

Mycroft had been avoiding looking at Molly before, but now he eyed her seriously, a slight look of sadness on his usually stone cold face.

"You were a friend of Dr. Watson, correct?"

"Yes." Molly's heartbeats accelerated, fearing for the worst.

"Then it is my burden to let you know, that John Watson was found dead last night, along with the body of Helen Roylott, of whom my brother is a suspect of killing."

Molly hid her face in her hands and shook her head in denial. _It can't be! I just saw him!_

Mycroft continued: "As you are well aware of Sherlock's close relations to him, it is explainable, that he so-to-speak 'shut himself down'." Suddenly he looked older and more distressed. "It has happened once before, when he was younger. His mind works in peculiar ways, almost like a computer. Do take care of him, Dr. Hooper."

Molly's face was still hidden and she was about to break down crying, so Mycroft knew it was time for him to leave. He took out his chequebook, scribbled something in it, tore the paper out and placed it on her coffeé table, under the remote control.

After reaching the door, he turned again towards the woman, saying his final words: "Miss Mary Morstan has already been contacted and she has has decided to spend some time with her relatives in Scotland. Good day, Dr. Hooper." The tall man exited the flat silently and as soon as Molly heard the familiar click of the lock, the first tears escaped her.

Soon she was violently sobbing, her shoulders shook and she grabbed around her waist to tame the trembling.

_No... It can't be. John can't be dead._


	7. A Family Portrait

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TRIGGER WARNING FOR THIS CHAPTER.

CHAPTER 7: A FAMILY PORTRAIT

_Siger Holmes was a well respected man, with a loving wife and two bright sons. His family lived in comfort and wealth, never missing anything. The grandness of the Holmes were known all over England. Their estate held many meetings, where famous and rich people would get together, get drunk and discuss things about their perfect lives._

_But as soon as the doors were closed behind the last guest, the children would be ushered to their bedrooms by the maids and the seemingly loving parents would go to their separate rooms. The colourful family picture with smiling faces would take its real shape._

_Siger Holmes and Violet Sherrinford met at her parents' party. The man seduced her and soon they requested a permission to marry, which they were granted without any rejections. A union of two wealthy families was the intention of their parents when they introduced them to each other anyway._

_Violet's mother had been overly happy about it, because it had been her long time wish to have beautiful grandchildren. And Siger Holmes was the best candidate for it, with is deep dark curls and high cheekbones._

_But soon after the grandiose wedding, came clear that the couple was not infact a match made in heaven. By that time Violet was already pregnant and divorce was out of the question, since both sides of the family threatened to leave them without heritage, if they did so._

_So came to be the perfect family that was not so perfect after all. The children were to suffer the most. The boys were never allowed to have any friends, because the constant fright over kidnapping and ransom paying. They grew up alone._

_Mycroft's birth had been inevitable, but Sherlock's, ten years later, was purely unwanted, a result of a drunk night. The opportunity to blame the boy for it was never left unused. He was constantly humiliated by his parents, especially his father. Mycroft never stood up for the young one, telling Sherlock to get used to it._

_Everyone in the house knew about the affairs on both sides. Violet was able to keep them discreet, but Siger would bring home women, and some maids had sworn to see even men, almost publically._

_So the Holmes boys got used to hearing their father's low laugh together with a stranger's. They learned to ignore it._

_Mycroft, who had been five years in boarding school when Sherlock was born, spent his time studying across the country. The five year old Sherlock was alone. More than once he told something he shouldn't have, without Mycroft stopping him, because he wasn't there._

_Years of waiting for his brother to be home more than a couple of weeks, Sherlock was tired and said something especially cutting while his father was present. The man angered and took the boy to his room, where he slapped him hard across the face. Sherlock was too shocked and didn't start crying, but stared with large eyes, hand on his reddening cheek._

_Siger found that the slap wasn't enough. He wanted to see his son cry. So he grabbed his hair, pushed him on the floor with an animalistic growl and pulled off the boy's shorts._

_No one came, even though he screamed. No one came, even though he cried. No one cared that he spent the next days in bed with a fever so high he almost had permanent damage._

_During winter break, by the time Sherlock had healed, Mycroft came home. Sherlock tried to tell him what had happened, but his brother didn't believe him and said he was lying to get attention. He believed his father to be many things, but not that._

_That one day wasn't the only one. The gruesome act took place a few times when Siger Holmes had had too many drinks on his behalf. Coincidentally Violet was never home that time, but Sherlock believed that even if she had been home, she wouldn't have cared. No one asked what was wrong with him, when he couldn't walk properly and his face was beaten up._

_So he distanced himself from everyone. He found it better if he just locked all the feelings away, not having to feel the hurt all the time. He would spend most of his time reading scientific books. Nobody noticed it was not usual for a boy at his age, because there just wasn't anyone around._

_When Mycroft came home for a holiday, Sherlock had just had the most horrifying day of them all. His eye was purple, his lip gashed and he stood wrongly, when he met his brother._

_Only then Mycroft believed him. He took Sherlock away to an acquaintance and sorted things out. Sherlock never met his father again. And he was glad._

_The next year he went to school and immediately discovered that he didn't enjoy it there. But it was better than home. He was bullied, but never violated as his father did._

Saturday: 4 p.m.

Molly was tired. She had never felt so alone in her life, although he wasn't the only one in the flat. She had been crying too much and her body was drained.

Lestrade had come over, but he had to leave soon, because he still had work to do concerning the case. Molly was sure he had shed some tears, when she saw his puffy red eyes. But she was also sure she looked a lot worse.

Sherlock hadn't woken up, but during some point, he had twitched. Molly tried to concentrate on him and did as best as she could. She changed the towel on his forehead constantly.

Around two o' clock she had found a bag of his clothes behind the door. No doubt it was Mycroft's doing. Remaining a complete professional, Molly changed Sherlock out of his dress pants and ripped shirt. She refrained from watching as much as possible. She put him in a grey T-shirt and blue pajamas bottoms, just so that he would be more comfortable, as it was the least she could do in this situation.

She measured his temperature again. It was the same and he showed no signs of doing any better than before.


	8. If You Have An Older Brother, No Matter What Happens, It's Still His Fault.

CHAPTER 8: IF YOU HAVE AN OLDER BROTHER, NO MATTER WHAT HAPPENS, IT'S STILL HIS FAULT.

_It was a Tuesday. Definitely a Tuesday. A day not worth remembering, a day like any other. Or was it? Sherlock Holmes had been finally granted access to the labs of St Bartholomew's Hospital by Mycroft. That changed a great deal for him. His landlord would no longer have the excuse to threaten him. He almost lost his flat a couple of times, after some accidental (or not so accidental) explosions. So you could say it was a day worth remembering._

_He banged in the lab like he owned the place, startling a young woman, who dropped the folders she was carrying. An intern, Sherlock deduced, about to get her PhD._

_She apologized, stammering, and asked who he was._

_"Sherlock Holmes. And you must be Molly Hooper. Feel free to leave, there is no need to supervise me. I can tell the difference between a beaker and a test tube."_

_But she stayed. She sat down behind the table and observed him._

_"Umm... Mr... Holmes? You shouldn't ... do that... please."_

_"Why?"_

_"Because... that reaction could do a lot damage... and you aren't wearing any protective gear."_

_He looked at her curiously and then back at his experiment. That young woman was quite intelligent. And without her interruption, he could have gotten serious damage._

_"Sherlock."_

_"Wha-?"_

_"You can call me Sherlock."_

_She smiled and blushed."It's nice to meet you, Sherlock."_

_"Likewise, Molly. Now could you hand me those safety glasses..."_

Things were still in chaos, but in organized chaos. The piles and piles of knowledge had taken their new order and had collected themselves like they used to be. With an exception.

The nasty pile that Sherlock had always tried to forget made itself forth. Sentiment. A chemical defect found on the losing side.

That must have been true, because in that moment the brilliant Sherlock Holmes was the biggest loser in the world. And he didn't even know that he had lost until it happened.

_He was my friend. My best friend. My only friend._

But that wasn't quite true. He had Mrs. Hudson, Lestrade and... sweet Molly.

_Sweet?_

Yes. Sweet. And clever, beautiful, ever joyful and, even when Sherlock didn't like to admit it, funny.

_She's not John._

Of course she isn't John. John was Sherlock's best friend, but he didn't catch himself thinking about his eyes in a non-medical way from time to time.

_His eyes?_

Her eyes. Chocolate brown. Deep pools of everything Molly.

_Why am I thinking about Molly's eyes?_

Even though Sherlock sees through everyone and everything in seconds, what's incredible is how spectacularly ignorant he is about some things.

He had never had much experience in feelings and suddenly he was overwhelmed. Grief, sadness, regret, guilt, enragement, the feeling of being powerless, helpless. And what added to the confusion was the utter need for consolation. And not from anybody. From her.

That was the moment when his brain connected with the reality again. He felt tingling in his fingers and toes and he was hot, he could feel the heat radiating from him. But he also felt a coolness on his forehead.

Painfully slowly Sherlock opened his eyes in a strange bedroom, which was lighted with the bright warm sun of the afternoon. He pushed himself sitting and the towel on his head fell off into his lap, as he looked around.

The room was in bright colours. There was a patchwork quilt underneath him on the light brown large wooden bed in the middle of the room, sided by two low nightstands. Sitting up on the bed, he could see his reflection in the mirror above the dressing table, which was covered with jewellery boxes, perfumes, make-up and other feminine beauty products. In the corner by the window was a Victorian style chair, that was covered with some articles of clothing.

Every little detail in this room spoke about its owner in volumes. Especially since the owner herself was standing in the closet's doorway, wearing nothing but... Well... Absolutely nothing.

Sherlock's breath hitched and he felt a warm stirring in the pit of his stomach. He was frozen in place and couldn't take his eyes away from the soft curves of the woman who awoke those strange elations, so out of place in his grief stricken mind.

Sunday: 2 p.m.

Molly's morning was tiring. Not physically (she only went on a quick grocery shopping tour and came right back home), but mentally. She was beginning to have a headache, because of all the worrying in the last couple of days.

Before Molly went out, she made breakfast for two, still carrying hope that Sherlock would wake soon. But the detective lay still on the bed, the only sign of him being alive was the slow rise and fall of his chest.

So Molly decided to have a shower and get at least some of the tension out of her shoulders.

Two doors lead to her bathroom: one from the living room and the other from her bedroom through the open closet with sliding mirrored doors. Her oldest brother had made that accommodation for her when she had moved in the apartment. The bathroom itself was in beige, white and burgundy colours, with a bathtub for which Molly was really grateful.

She would have liked a good long soak in the tub filled with bubbly water, but she was still anxious about Sherlock. So she went for a simple shower.

As soon as the hot water hit her bare shoulders, she felt some of her muscles start to relax. She shampooed her hair and washed throughly until she noticed her wrinkled fingertips. Molly turned off the water and pulled off the shower curtain. She automatically reached out to her cupboard for a towel, but her hand stopped halfway there.

"That's just great," she muttered. She stood in the bath for a second, water dripping off her body, with nothing to dry herself with. She twisted her hair a little dryer and carefully stepped out of the bathtub on the warm tile floor.

With a deep sigh Molly opened the door to the closet and to her great discomfort the doors on the other side were open as well, revealing the still unconscious ( _Phew!_ ) form of Sherlock. Molly tiptoed in her small closet and started searching for clean towels on one of the shelves. On exactly the same moment she succeeded in pulling out one, she heard a small gasp behind her. Acting purely on reflexes, she sharply turned around and accidentally dropped the towel ( _Way to go, Molly!_ ).

Previously very much unconscious detective was now sitting up on the bed, staring at the very much naked Molly with large eyes and the woman herself was standing still as a statue, staring right back at the resurrected man. Seconds passed, neither of them moving, until Sherlock finally blinked and moved his eyes to her face. Only then Molly remembered her state of undress and she stumbled back to the bathroom with a loud yelp.


	9. One Makes Tea With The Intention Of Drinking It, But Finds Something More Useful To Do, So The Plans Are Cancelled.

CHAPTER 9: ONE MAKES TEA WITH THE INTENTION OF DRINKING IT, BUT FINDS SOMETHING MORE USEFUL TO DO, SO THE PLANS ARE CANCELLED.

Sunday, 2 p.m.

After promptly closing the door behind her, Molly sunk to the warm bathroom floor and supported her head on the wooden surface of the only thing hiding her from the ever observant eyes of Sherlock Holmes. It was just her luck that he had woken up that very moment. It was like a scenario of a cheap movie. Only instead of him swiping her off her feet, he stared at her with an open mouth.

_Was he... looking? Oh my god! I can never look him in the eye again. And he wouldn't even want to look at me anymore. But was he... looking? Oh my god he was! He saw everything!_

A quiet sob escaped her mouth.

Her naked body, still dripping water, had nothing to cover herself with. The laundry basket was empty, as well as the washing machine. Not even a tiniest piece of cloth was lying around.

For a moment Molly had even thought that she has to stay in her bathroom until the day she dies, but she dismissed that thought right away. _One moment or another he will leave my bedroom and then I can go._

So she listened carefully to the sounds from the next room. For a while she couldn't hear anything, but then the recognizable squeak of the bed pierced the silence, then slow quiet footsteps and then the sound of the door opening and closing behind someone.

Molly stood up and opened the bathroom door again, first carefully peeking to make sure the room really was empty. Having confirmed that fact, she stepped in her closet and closed the slide doors. The light from the open bathroom door illuminated the shelves, where her clothes lay. She picked up the towel she dropped before and dried herself with it.

Then she took a pair of matching underwear, a pair of leggings and a comfortable tunic with red and blue stripes and put them on. Going back to the bathroom, she hanged the towel on a hook to dry. Then she combed and blow dried her hair, so it would stick straight instead of going frizzy.

She could no longer postpone the inevitable and she exited the bathroom again, opened the sliding doors and stepped in her bedroom. Sherlock had left the wet towel that was on his forehead on the cupboard, so she grabbed it to take it to her kitchen.

She quietly left her bedroom and saw right away Sherlock standing next to the window, looking out on the street, a solemn expression on his face. He lifted his eyes for a second, but they moved back to the window again. Molly's cheeks were glowing red, as she went to her kitchenette to put the towel hanging on the oven door's handle.

Without asking if he wanted any, she put the kettle on for tea. While waiting it to start boiling, she took out two colorfully patterned mugs and placed two teabags in them. Then she waited. Molly didn't turn her face towards Sherlock nor did he move from his position from the window. The flat was dead silent.

They could hear the car engines roaring on the streets and the clock ticking on the wall, counting past seconds. The silence was pierced by the whistle of the kettle and Molly, who had been supporting herself on the counter, looking at the wall, turned the fire off. She poured the tea in the mugs and watched as the black tea integrated with the hot water, changing the colour in fascinating swirls. As soon as the liquid was dark enough, Molly took out the bags and threw them in the bin.

She took the steaming mugs in her both hands and, still without looking Sherlock in the eye, handed the man one of them, fully expecting him not to except it. He carefully took the offering and turned his gaze from the street. Molly went and sat down at her sofa, pushing the sheets she'd been using in one corner. She tucked her legs safely underneath her, holding her tea with both hands, one elbow supported on the armrest.

After another moment of quiet, Molly heard movement by the window. Sherlock made his way next to her and sat down on the sofa, leaving plenty of room between them.

Molly was staring at her mug, Sherlock the black-screened television set in front of him. His gaze slid on the coffee table and the cheque under the remote caught his eye. Having placed his tea down, he grabbed it and read what was written on it.

Molly never found out what Mycroft had left her, when Sherlock crumpled it in his fist. He rose and threw it in the rubbish bin under the sink. Then he sat back down and gulped down his tea all at once.

Suddenly he felt warm hands wrap around him. Normally Sherlock despised physical contact, but he had been missing human touch for so long now. He hid his face in Molly's hair, put his hands to her waist and pulled her closer.

His head was pounding, ears were ringing, heart was aching. He felt sick and dizzy. The only thing which was able to keep him sane, was Molly's quiet soothing voice, although constantly cracking, it was helped him to keep a part of his mind clear.

After some time, Sherlock was able to calm his erratic breath by breathing in the familiar lavender scent of Molly's shampoo. Her fingers were combing through his messy hair and her left hand was rubbing circles on his back.

Finally after collecting himself fully, he let go of the woman he had been gripping almost painfully. Molly released her hold on him and shifted back to give him some room to breathe, carefully observing Sherlock's facial expressions.

He was deeply frowning and his eyes were closed as he pinched the bridge of his nose between his index and thumb. Opening them, there was a second when Molly could see all the pain and sorrow reflect from the ocean coloured eyes, but a moment later his features turned cold.

Molly's reaction was quick. She grabbed his face between her hands and made him look at her.

"Don't do it, Sherlock. Don't keep it in. It won't get better like that. You need to let go. Please, Sherlock. I've been there, I know."

Her words had an effect on him. His shoulders slumped down in surrender and his head bent down. Molly could see big drops of tears fall on his hands that were lying in his lap.

"I'm so sorry, Sherlock. I really am."

Sunday, 5 p.m.

Somehow the two of them had ended up lying together on the sofa, Sherlock's arms protectively wrapped around Molly. She had fallen asleep after a while, but the detective lay eyes open, looking at her sleeping figure.

 _"Look what sentiment does to you, Sherlock. You're weak. Weak and pathetic. If you hadn't befriended John, you wouldn't have to go through this right now,"_ a voice strangely similar to Mycroft's sounded in his head.

_Shut up!_

_"You are no better than ordinary people, Sherlock. You're pointless."_

_SHUT UP!_

_"If Molly Hooper finds out that you are boring, she wouldn't want to do anything with you."_

_... She knows me. She knows what I'm like. She helps me. She helps me to deal with this. She helps me think. This is sentiment and this is helping me pull through. It's not a weakness. It's a strength._

_"Finally, Sherlock,"_ a soft feminine voice sighed in his mind.

Sherlock nuzzled his face deeper in the sleeping woman's hair and breathed in her scent. The texture of her skin was soft and smooth, his cheek touched hers. He thought he could lay this way forever, listening to her slow heartbeat.

Soon though his moment of peace was interrupted by the doorbell.

Sherlock wrapped himself from around Molly and got up, pulling the sheet, that was crumpled in one end of the sofa, over her. He made his way to the flat door and opened it, just because he didn't want the annoying sound of the doorbell to wake Molly up from her much-needed sleep.

"Brother dear. How nice to see you back on your feet."


	10. A Bed, A Mute And A Familiar Presence

CHAPTER 10: A BED, A MUTE AND A FAMILIAR PRESENCE

Monday: 8 a.m.

Yesterday, after Mycroft had left, Sherlock had dragged Molly to her bedroom, under the covers and pulled her to his chest, wrapping himself around her. He hadn’t said a word to his brother and it had seemed like he had been ignoring him if it had been not for his clenched fists.

Mycroft had told him that the investigation of John’s death was still ongoing and it would be closed if Sherlock came to the police station to tell them what had happened. His charges could be cleared once proven that the murder of Helen Roylott had been self-defence.

At that point Molly had woken up. Hearing what Mycroft was saying and seeing Sherlock’s suppressed reactions to it she had paled. When he had continued to report John’s autopsy results she had risen and told him to leave.

She’d closed the door behind him with a sigh.

Now it was a Monday morning and Molly had to go to work. Having untangled herself from Sherlock’s long limbs she prepared herself to go out. But before she could exit the she wrote a note to the man, who was still sleeping in her bed.

_Went to work. I’ll be back around 5. Take a bath, it’ll make you feel better. xxx_

_-Molly_

She placed it on the nightstand next to him with a glass of water and gently kissed his forehead before leaving. _He can manage_ , Molly reassured herself and made her way to St. Bart’s hospital where in the morgue freezer was waiting the body of John Watson.

Monday: 1 p.m.

He pulled the blanket over his head and breathed in the scent of the sheets. His fuzzy brain couldn’t understand where he was at first, as he peeked out to let his sleepy eyes get accustomed to the bright sunlight, but then he remembered.

He stretched himself on the bed, feeling his aching muscles. His legs were cramped, his back was tense and his hands were trembly. He touched his face and hair, feeling the short stubble that he usually never let grow and the grease in his hair. He smelled like sweat.

Sherlock pushed the blanket off him and sat on the edge of the bed, feet on the carpet. The sudden rise had made his head ache, a stinging pain in his temples and the feeling like someone was squeezing his brain didn’t make it any easier to get up from the bed.

He sat there for a moment, staring at his reflection on the slide door mirrors. He thought he looked like a ghost with his dark eyes and the grim expression. Pressing his mouth in a thin line, using the muscles of his arms which were reluctant to work for him, he pushed himself up.

He was angry at himself for letting go like that. Loose brain wasn’t any use in a situation like this. Looking like a tramp wasn’t helpful either. Feeling like being hit by a train wasn’t going to do him any good as well.

The note on the nightstand caught his eye. He took it in his hand reading it two times to get the meaning of it and then he put it back where he took it. _Thank the forces of nature for the existence of Molly Hooper_ , he thought. He was glad that even when she wasn’t present he could rely on her to do or say the necessary things to make everything seem better than it actually was.

He followed her advice and went to her bathroom to fill up the tub. While the water was running Sherlock acquainted himself with Molly’s closet in order to find himself a clean towel on one of the shelves. After pulling out one that was a little less bright pink than the others, he spotted a bag on the floor containing his clothes. On top of them all was his white shirt. Seeing the blood on it he flinched back and looked away.

_Pull yourself together!_

_It’s just… blood… of your best friend… who is dead… because of you. How does it feel?_

_Stop it!_

_You know it_ , the voice in his head said with a sing-song voice, _you know it, don’t deny it._

_Please stop!_

_You never say please, Sherlock. Did you ever say please to John before he died? Pleeeaaaaaseee_ , the voice screeched.

Sherlock threw the yellow towel he had taken on the bag so he didn’t have to see the shirt anymore and marched in the bathroom, closing the door behind him with a loud pound. He closed the tap and the bathroom fell silent.

Taking his time he took off his clothes. He left them right where they had fallen and climbed in the hot bath, breathing in the humid air. He supported his back against the tub and let his head fall back while he stared at the ceiling, trying to clear his head from disturbing thoughts.

Slowly he lowered himself so that his head was now underwater. Everything was so different there: hazy, unclear… silent.

 _This is nice_ , Sherlock thought, _I could be here, I could stay._

Monday: 5 p.m.

When Molly entered her flat not a sound was heard.

"Sherlock!" she called out.

No one replied.

She frowned and looked around. The living room and the kitchenette were empty and no light seemed to be on in the bathroom and in the bedroom. Molly took off her coat, hung it and put his bag on a small cupboard next to the door. Untying the laces of her shoes she had the most terrifying thought.

_He wouldn’t!_

Almost frantically she tore off the shoes and rushed to her bedroom door which was firmly shut. She opened it and breathed out a sigh of relief when she saw Sherlock lying on her bed, hair damp and a towel around his waist.

He didn’t seem to be sleeping - he looked too tense. His back was supported on the bed’s headboard, hands splayed on his stomach and his brow was furrowed from thinking. There were goosebumps on his skin.

 _He’s probably cold,_ Molly thought, making her way into her closet to find something clean for him to wear. The bag on the floor where his clothes were was open and in a noticeable place, _so why_ , Molly wondered, _didn’t he put on some cl— Oh._

Quickly, berating herself about her idiocy, she took the white shirt, dress coat and the trousers he was wearing when he crashed in there and put them in the back of one shelf where no one could see them.

Picking up the bag she went back in the bedroom and put it on the bed by Sherlock’s feet. She gently touched his head and the furrow of his brow smoothed.

"Sherlock!" she quietly called him.

His eyes flashed open and he jerked away from her hand. As soon as he understood, who it was who had touched him, he calmed and looked up to her, eyes full of apologies. She smiled weakly and patted the bag with his clothes.

"You should put something on. You getting a cold is the last thing we need right now." She opened the bag wide and started taking things out of there. "There are some toiletries here I think you’d want. Your purple shirt. And oh! I didn’t know you wore jeans, too. Ah wait now I remember! Socks. And… Ummm… Underwear." She blushed profusely and pushed awkwardly everything in Sherlock’s lap. "I’ll leave you to it. I’ll put your pyjamas to wash, okay?"

Sherlock nodded, grateful that she had removed the bloody clothes and feeling better than before now that Molly was home he got off from the bed and dressed as peaceful and relaxed as he could in his state. Once decent, he followed Molly in the bathroom and watched by the door how she pushed the buttons of the washing machine, silently mumbling something about stupid pieces of metal to herself.

 _You’re in love with her_ , his inner voice said compassionately.

 _I am_.


End file.
